


Every Other

by cartouche



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Melancholy, Romance, slightly melancholy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3346838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the small things at first. The neat shoes by the door, a mug nestled on a shelf, the smell of cologne or Ceylon or Marlboro. Clichéd, really, and Francis almost wants to laugh at the absurdity. He almost considers leaving notes around to complete the image, a post-it stuck to the fridge, and looping letters in toothpaste on the bathroom mirror.</p><p>-</p><p>Ordinary snapshots of extraordinary lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Other

**Author's Note:**

> I went to London and got feels from all the pretty drizzle and drinking hot chocolate in tiny cafes and art galleries so I wrote this on the way home. It's not great because I haven't written in ages, my creativity has been flattened by school work, but I hope you all enjoy it!

i. Their mornings go like this;  
  
Francis wakes up for the sunrise. He smokes on the balcony, silken robe draped artfully as he watches the world wake up, golden light filtering in the room. The lump in the bed shifts, groans, and Francis taps dying embers over the rail, watches the wind catch grey ashes and whisk them out over a greyer city, dancing on the breeze. He waltzes his way into the kitchen with the grace of a Degas' dancer and pretends his lips don't twitch fondly at the familiar curses thrown after him for leaving the curtains open.  
  
His dark coffee steams next to Earl Grey.  
  


* * *

ii. The phone call wakes him in the tar pitch of darkness, and he clings frantically to the warm embrace of sleep slipping steadily away with each persistent grind of the default ringtone. He groans, rolls over, opens bleary eyes and peers at the elegant clock balanced precariously on his night stand.   
  
_2:43 am_.  
  
Cold air tingles over his bare calves as his duvet slips, shifts with the tug of gravity, and he wants nothing more than to ignore his phone, bury his head into his pillow, cocoon himself in a sleepy warmth and drift off into a blissful oblivion again.  
  
A hand gropes along smooth wood and smashes freezing glass against the side of his face with an unintelligible sound.   
  
There's static, the sound of heavy bass pounding, people jeering, laughing, the clink of glasses, all blaring tinnily through the speaker on his phone. He doesn't need to look at the caller ID.  
  
"Art'ur?"  
  
"Frog." It's slurred, and he has to suppress another groan. "Why- WHY THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU HAVE TO GO AND SUPPORT THAT BRAT?! DID Y-YOU HATE ME THAT MUCH THAT YOU HAD TO GO AND TURN AGAINST ME TOO?"   
  
Ah, the woes of alcohol. He's chosen the Revolution this time, unsurprising, it's the usual topic, when it's not religion or France. He almost regrets answering.   
  
"Where are you cher?" He sounds appropriately offended, utterly resigned. He can't count the number of times he's been woken up to this.  
  
The pause is longer, the voice that replies is quiet, regretful, petulantly stubborn, and Francis can see a small cloaked figure, wild, bushy browed and fierce. Far cuter back then. "Wh-Where d'you bloody think?"  
  
"I will be there soon, ami. Do try not to start a fight."  
  
It's almost inevitable that he starts one, as if to spite out of pure habit, brawling around on the floor by the time Francis can drag him away with a charming smile and profuse apologies. Arthur throws up twice in his toilet, and finally passes out some time around sunrise, and Francis tries not to think of the dark circles that will undoubtedly ring his eyes and ruin his complexion.  
  
There's a small lump in his bed, a mess of blonde hair and rumpled sheets and an elbow sticking out and it's strangely comforting, even when he starts yelling that the light is too loud, and he's too cold and too warm and _why does everything smell like roses?_

* * *

iii. Francis finds his old gramophone in the attic and drags it down to the kitchen, dusts it off meticulously and delicately places Debussy on it, watches the black vinyl spin, dark and blurring, the light catching sickening whirls of looped grooves.  
  
The first few notes are scratchy and Arthur's hair tickles as he lays his head heavily on his shoulder and they slowly rock from side to side.

* * *

iv. It's the small things at first. The neat shoes by the door, a mug nestled on a shelf, the smell of cologne or Ceylon or Marlboro. _Clichéd_ , really, and Francis is tempted laugh at the absurdity, but he'd be too worried about going mad. He almost considers leaving notes around to complete the image, a post-it stuck to the fridge, and looping letters in toothpaste on the bathroom mirror.   
  
He doesn't need to really. Not when a slender hand brushes his, frozen and seeking out warmth, their fingers entwining as though God himself had made them into a perfect match.

* * *

v. Gilbert and Antonio are the very _best_ of friends, and the very _worst_ of influences. It's a Saturday, and he has Plans, Very Important Plans in all capital letters, but they drag him to some nameless bar nonetheless, and Arthur shoos them out like an angry housewife, watching them cackle into the night air, heavy arms slung around exposed necks. They drink far too much, laugh far too much, _flirt_ far too much with the pretty waitresses who drop off their next rounds, and Francis is still chuckling quietly when he stumbles in at some ungodly hour, key scratching the lock and door jamming in the frame.  
  
It's quiet inside, every room filled with a soft glow, and it's magical in a wholly _everyday_ way, and he can feel his breath stick in his throat and his heart thump harder in his chest.   
  
Arthur's sprawled out over his desk, eyes closed and messy hair flattened against hard wood and inky paper, and he pauses for a moment, enraptured by the slow rise and fall of sharp shoulder blades, softened by the worn wool of a green cardigan stretched taut. He's beautiful like this, brow smoothed of its scowl, lashes fluttering like bird wings over pale cheeks, delicately half flushed with sleep. He has the strong urge to draw, finger itching for pencil and paper to immortalise the moment, but instead he reaches out, gently wakes him, ignores his bleary eyed grumbles as he shepherds him into bed.   
  
The he collapses into a chair, and lets the tip of his pencil dance a graceful pattern over the page.

* * *

( vi. Arthur finds him in the morning, head tipped back to expose the long line of his throat, fingers smudged grey and metallic, still loosely clasping the pencil. He studies the way that the weak sunlight catches the gold of the hair that falls over his face, the fashionable half stubble peppering his sharp jaw, the slow rise and fall of a rib cage, flash wrapped over a lattice of bone, protection for the heart he knows beats within. He thinks of dew on grass, and the lark's clear warble and the smell of fresh croissants baking on a crisp autumn morning. He half wishes he could draw, capture the moment, immortalise it forever.  
  
Francis hides the picture in his bottom drawer and doesn't take it out to look at it until its corners are worn with gentle thumbing and the lines are faded and the thin paper crackles with age. )

* * *

vii. On bad days (and there are always bad days), Arthur knows exactly where to find him. He's always up high, on roofs, legs dangling into the dark abyss below and eyes unfocused on the stars that are scattered carelessly across the dark navy of the sky above. Arthur will always know where to find him, and Francis will always wordlessly accept his company, offer him a cigarette which is taken with a barely restrained relief (of course they both gave up smoking a long time ago. That's what they tell themselves), and they will both sit in silence, smoking, orange tips blending with the lights spread out before them and shoulders rubbing companionably together, warm against the night chill.  
  
They are so very good at hurting each other.  
  
It's a habit they should have given up long ago, using each other as a crutch to lean on, giving yet another opportunity to attack and hurt, but Arthur could never ignore the melancholy expression that paints Francis' features and Francis wouldn't dare push away the arms that cling to him, desperate and needy. They hurt each other, but they trust each other, need each other, and neither of them would give that up.  
  
This is when they talk, long rambling conversations that span the millennia they have lived through. Francis speaks of _Jeanne_ , Arthur of _Elizabeth_. Both of them wallow in the _glory_ of an empire, the _pain_ of revolution, the great wars when death had seemed _inevitable, inescapable_. It is always Arthur who stands, slowly and woodenly, stretching out his back until it cracks and Francis who accuses him of being an old man. It is always Arthur who will gently tug Francis away from the edge, away from the past and all its memories, drag him exhausted into bed and curl up with him, warmth against warmth.  
  
Francis will wake and complain about the wrinkles in his clothes, but for a while all is calm. It is always in these moments that they both think the word _love_ has never been more appropriate.

* * *

viii. They both disappear for a few weeks, run away into the countryside where their responsibilities can no longer hound them, and they can simply close their eyes and pretend. Sometimes it is to Arthur's sprawling stone cottage tucked away in the depths of the Cotswolds, with the honeysuckle smothering the windows and the giant rose bush in the garden. Sometimes it is to Francis' villa hidden in a river bend outside of Lyon, with high arching doorways and light airy rooms.  Everyone always knows where they are, what they are doing, but they keep quiet, give them a few weeks of reprieve before they drag them back into a chaos of politics and diplomacy and unions.   
  
They've done this ever since they were children.   
  
It's almost a tradition now, these few weeks they both spend together, where Francis cooks and Arthur gets dragged out of bed before midday and they both take picnics and explore land they know better than their own hands. But it's nice, for a while to close their eyes and pretend, that they are nothing more than human, mortal, uninfluenced by their people and international relations and history, able to age and spend their whole life like this if they wished, grow old together, still arguing and bickering. It's nice to pretend, if only for a while.  
  
Arthur's eyes are closed, lips curving as the long grass sways around them and the sky slowly darkens as dusk falls, blue into lavender into indigo. They should get up, before it gets too cold, before the dew forms, and trudge back to the house, empty picnic basket clanging between them as they discuss the merits of wine versus beer and elegance versus practicality and blue versus green. Instead Francis hesitates before reaching out and taking a familiar hand, laying his head on the familiar swell of a ribcage in order to hear a familiar heartbeat; _thud, thud, thud_.  
  
Arthur hums in discomfort but makes no move to dislodge him, and they both lie there, silent, as the sun dies and the world fades.   
  
They will be here until the end of time, eternal and constant. 

* * *

ix. There are compromises on compromises, always a meeting of half way points that they will argue over and reassign and argue over again. Francis cooks and Arthur gardens, Francis paints and Arthur crochets, Francis cuts his roses and Arthur breaks his wine glasses, Francis dances around to god awful naughties pop and Arthur blasts out Pink Floyd and Queen and Led Zeppelin. Arthur drags Francis to a truly miserable evening at some unheard of pub that he doubts even serves wine, just to hear some band full of old men playing old songs that Arthur first heard live in 1978. Francis, always vindictive, takes Arthur shopping, pushes him into sleek suits and tight slacks, drapes him in cashmere and silk and finest Italian leather, buys him watches and cufflinks and Egyptian cotton shirts and Arthur baulks at the price tags. Francis leaves the shops with a broad smile and a theatrical flounce, Arthur leaves with a slump and too many bags, and the begrudging acceptance that he does manage to look rather dapper in the clothes, even if they are excessive and fancy and an entirely frivolous waste of money.  
  
He doesn't think about the way Francis smiles as he huffs into another changing room, and the way his eyes light up when he trudges out wearing the latest shirt with too many frills.  
  
It's _always_ a compromise.

* * *

x. They are opposites in every way. Francis is lithe and graceful, debonair and charming, Arthur is lean and perfunct and works too much and scowls hard enough that Francis often wonders how he doesn’t have any wrinkles lining his forehead yet.  
  
His brothers whistle at Francis when his back is turned and almost choke when he spins around and they see the broad shoulders and flat chest and stubble. Arthur laughs until tears stream from his eyes and Francis blows them kisses and throws them winks.

People flock to Francis and he bathes in their admiration. Arthur prefers books and solitude and peace and quiet.

They’re on the floor again, fighting bodily, viciously, like cats. Francis rakes perfectly manicured nails down his sides and thrusts a knee into his stomach, Arthur yanks long blonde locks and uses his sharp elbows, and they both hiss and scream and rage. Ludwig hauls them out of the meeting and sends them limping home. Arthur wakes up with a black eye and bruised ribs and a sprained ankle. Francis wakes up with a split lip and torn muscles and a sprained wrist. They both wake up wrapped around each other, and spend the day patching up grazed knuckles and kissing away the rivulets of water that glide over skin from the shower spray.

Francis is exuberant, Arthur is reserved. Francis spends excessively, Arthur is frugal. Francis is generous, Arthur is meaningful.

They get drunk together. Francis usually refuses to drink with Arthur, but occasionally he gives in, hoarding his good wine while Arthur downs pints and spirits. They reminisce together, ankles touching faintly, remember when they were children, dragging each other through forests and over grassy plains, when they were a family, with America and Canada as little colonies, when they were Allies fighting alongside each other for the sake of the world, each memory brought to life with quiet murmurs and heads tilted together as though sharing some great secret. It’s half in English and half in French (even though Arthur will stubbornly refuse to admit it), and they end up kissing, Francis pushed against the wall, working his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. It’s slow and bittersweet, and Francis thinks about their entwined past, their lands, separated by only the most meagre stretch of water, their fates, inexorably joined for all eternity, and he wonders if there are, if there ever will be, two countries as bound together as they will be, as indefinitely close.

He decides, as fingers tease his waistband and hands pin his above his head, that it really doesn’t matter. As long as he has _Arthur_ and Arthur has _him_.

* * *

xi. There is a dull kind of magic that winter brings to a city, and Francis finds himself enchanted by the slow drizzle of rain slicking streets and blurring windows, the heavy weight of the clouds pushing unbearably down on the earth, the cruel wind that whips along crooked streets and hurries the flocks of people along them, black and grey and bleak and bleaker.   
  
These are the days when they curl up together on the creaking sofa in Arthur's living room, legs tangled and toes curling as they wrap hands firmly around steaming mugs and watch the wisps float aimlessly and dissipate. They never talk, too scared of breaking the fragile spell that winds around them, binds them together, flesh and bone and something more, something _wonderful_ and _ethereal_ that they are really too comfortable to question.   
  
It always ends like this though;  
  
Francis shifts at some point, slides down languidly, head finding its way to Arthur's lap. A book is perched on the cushions, and a smooth voice reads aloud words that they barely listen to, the velvet of melted chocolate, the quiet hush of a wave breaking, the rustle of new leaves, vivid green on whip-thin branches. Somewhere Francis' eyes will slide close and somewhere thin fingers will gently comb through his hair, soothing and constant and reassuring. They'll fall asleep like this, wrapped around each other until it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins, and they will wake with crooked necks and muttered grumbles and an elbow in a stomach.   
  
But for now it's content and quiet, and neither of them have to pretend that it hasn't always been like this, and it won't always be.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should write notes here. I've forgotten what I usually write. 
> 
> Ceylon is a type of tea, as is Earl Grey, and Marlboro are famous cigarettes.  
> Degas was a p cool artist with a weird obsession for ballerinas and their graceful movements.  
> If I ever mention a grey city, it's probably London jesus chRIST.  
> It's canon Arthur is a bad drunk. ( IM THE UNITED BLOODY KINGDOM AND I CAN HELD MY LICHER BETTER THAN YOU ANYDAY! is my favourite line ever fite me )  
> Debussy is my favourite classical/romantic composer ever and if you want to know what England and France dance to, youtube Prelude to Suite Bergamasque.  
> The Cotswolds is a really pretty part of England right at the centre, Lyon is a fairly central French city which has AWESOME food.  
> Jeanne is of course Joan of Arc and Elizabeth is Elizabeth the First, the two women each respective country fell in love with.  
> As a total easter egg, the band that Arthur drags Francis to go and see is what is left of The Stanglers, aka my babies.  
> Pink Floyd Queen and Led Zeppelin are all excellent bands. Arthur has a great taste in music. The little punk.  
> Arthur's brothers are Ireland, Scotland and Wales who totally made the mistake Gilbert and Antonio did of thinking Francis is a girl  
> Ludwig is a boss ass bitch.  
> ANOTHER EASTER EGG the book Arthur reads is a tale of two cities because who doesn't love a bit of irony.
> 
> And if you read through that my god well done.  
> I'm out ~~


End file.
